


2019 Unfinished fics and scrapped stories

by JotTheDragonScribe, The Bloodhound (JotTheDragonScribe)



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon), ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: (kinda), 2019 unfinished fics, Amalgamation of several fic scraps with no connection between them whatsoever, Cat AU, Cats, F/F, Gen, Hallucinations, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Multi, Post-PHF, Rough Gems Au, Sick Character, Vampires, Wereanimals, Werebats, Werelions, Werewolves, Will add more tags as I add more scraps, cat owner au, everybody lives au, farm au, lycanthropy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22052746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JotTheDragonScribe/pseuds/JotTheDragonScribe, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JotTheDragonScribe/pseuds/The%20Bloodhound
Summary: What it says on the tin. There were a lot of fics I started and never finished, not even the first chapter, due to lack of time or simply realizing I didn't like it. So, before the decade ends, here's all of them, a horrid chimera of stories in no way connected to each other.
Kudos: 4





	1. Trisheila week continuation

#   
It's easy to tell when someone's stressed.  
It was something she learnt fast. When she was younger, deciding if someone was tense could save her from a set of teeth to her throat. 

They had reached Liguria, one of the final steps of the tour of the west coast. In nearly every city they stopped in, Trish had asked for a tour before going to bed. Be it 10, 11 or 12 pm, or even 2 am when they arrived to the hotel. Whether Sheila knew anything about their location didn't matter either, Trish would laugh, link arms with her and produce a guide from her trustworthy bag. All she needed was company.

It wasn't exactly her job, but Sheila didn't complain. 

When they reached their hotel, Trish was eerily quiet. No interest in visiting the city, nor even looking out the window of the room. She still maintained the air every star must keep: a constant aproachable façade, an underlying cheerfulness, never too intense, but Sheila could tell otherwise. 

Muffled sighs when she was alone, thumb running over the knots of her fingers, allowing her eyelids to droop for a mere second.  
Sheila wanted to say something, do something. Grab her shoulders and tell her to rest, take her outside for a stroll in the moonlight for her to breathe some fresh air, listen to her vent, run her hands through her ha-  
But that wasn't her job. She was her bodyguard, not her friend. Company, not a confidant. 

She helped her transport her bags to her room, asked if she needed anything else, then forcefully removed herself from the bedroom.   
As she reached the door, hand around the doorknob, she stopped in her tracks. Because her common sense had been left back in Napoli, she turned back. Looked side to side, to avoid staring at Trish directly. The pink-haired woman sat on the edge of her bed, looking down at the fuzzy carpet. She didn't seem to notice Sheila hadn't left yet.  
"...Ms. Una?"

The woman lifted her head in surprise, blinking as if to clear the heavy air about her.   
"Y-Yes? Sheila?"  
Sheila looked down, hand gripping the doorknob with more strength before completely turning toward the other woman.  
"Is everything alright?"

Trish seemed wary for a split second, worried her stress might have been obvious, despite at her attempts to conceal it. She sighed, leaning back with a mirthless smile upon her face.   
"Was it that obvious?"  
"I'm more aware of body language than other people, I'm sure no one else noticed, Ms. Una."

Trish laughed emptily, patting the space beside her. Sheila approached her, but her sense of duty prevented her from sitting down. The other woman did not seem to mind.  
"This is exhausting, Sheila. I don't even have time to properly rest between performances. I...", Trish sighed, hands clutching eachother. The woman still glanced at the ground, looking ever more tired now that the façade was gone.

Sheila looked at the other woman. She knew what overworking herself was. She knew what being forced to exhaust yourself by a sense of duty was.   
She knew how she felt better afterwards.  
"Miss Una", spoke Sheila, voice embarrassingly meek, "I know you need rest, but please. Allow me some minutes of your time, I will make you feel better." The younger woman extended a hand. Trish lifted her head, glancing first at the hand and then at her bodyguard's face, eyes turning wide as plates and face as red as a tomato.

/She got the wrong idea/, was Sheila's immediate thought, and she stammered out an explanation. "The- uhm, The moon is full. Tonight. A stroll outside would be good. Fresh air.", explained Sheila, coughing to fix her voice. Trish blinked twice before nodding vigorously. "Oh. Yeah, yeah! A stroll. Yeah, sure. Lead the way, haha!", nervously laughed the older woman, getting up from the bed. 

Sheila lead her through a well-lit path through the park, ever so worried about the image she gave across. She was doing her job, to protect Trish. Be it physically or psychologically. Her affections were to be shoved aside.   
Their arms were linked, as Trish ever so often insisted. The cold, she had justified, and Sheila nodded, wordlessly. Cold, yes.

"Do you... Uh, find your job, stressful?", asked Sheila, wondering if she was stepping a line. Trish let out a thoughtful "hmm".   
"Somewhat. It's- I love my job. I love it, I love singing, you know but... It's what they say, as soon as something becomes a job, you start to hate it.", Trish sighs, gazing at the bright, round moon, "But I love singing. I do". She clutches Sheila's arm harder, placing her other hand on top of it. The bodyguard ponders if she's trying to convince her or herself.

Trish can tell.

"No. No I... I /do/. I like singing. It's just stressful. To have to write songs, organize albums every year or so, to... To show up constanly in the public eye, or you'll be forgotten...", Trish explains, shoulders tensing up even more. The two continue walking in silence for a while, the only sound ringing through the night are their shoes against the concrete. Sheila thinks she can hear howls carried by northern chills, but pushes those dreams aside.

"My mom... Used to take care of that", Trish mutters, mostly to herself, walking closer to Sheila. The younger woman looks at her from the corner of her eye. You're gonna trip or hit a lamppost, she thinks to herself, but the vision of Trish lit only by moonlight and fading lamplight entrances her.   
Trish mumbles to herself, possibly as upset by lowering her walls as Sheila is surprised. "After all this time, dedicated to one career, you... You start to wonder,", Trish looks up again at the moon, wistfully, "If you're doing it for yourself, or the memory of someone else".

Something lurches in Sheila's chest, as if she had just gotten called out by Trish, right then and there.  
She feels the breath of a great, dark wolf on her neck, a chill runs through her. Her ghost trudged behind them, out of sight, ever present, ever cursing her life.  
"I'm sorry, here I am, babbling things", Trish laughs self-consciously, unlinking her arm from Sheila's, "We should go back to the hotel before it becomes dawn". Sheila blinks, and nods wordlessly. The two do a u-turn, walking back the path they followed. A heavy air settled between them.

"I understand how you feel, Miss Una", comments Sheila, and stays quiet for the rest of their stroll.

===  
They reach Piemonte, a place Sheila hadn't returned to in many, many years. She wondered if the rumours about her remained the same.

Trish feels better, from the looks of it. She's again insisting with Sheila that they have a tour of the village's centre. They have decided to stay to the west, in a small village in the Alps. They'll be heading to Turin for the concert, merely staying here for a day to rest and gather their bearings.  
The villagefolk are just as interested in the young star, however.

"Hey, young miss! Are you that young lady that sings in the radio?"  
"Holy crap, Marco, look! That's that singer, Trish Una, isn't it?"  
"What's /she/ doing here? I've only seen her in magazines!"

Trish is ever so dedicated to her fans, Sheila finally falling out of her attention for the day. It's her chance to catch her breath: Trish's casual, platonic affection has been getting to her. She's going to develop a thing for people grabbing her elbow at this rate.

They return to the inn at dusk. Stories of a pack of wolves accompanied by two little girl ghosts ('little ghost girls?', the innkeeper questions himself) are ever present in the whispers of the townsfolk, and Sheila feels a certain bubble of pride and nostalgia in her chest.   
The rumors are many, the time for lights-out is early. The two are sitting on the same bed, across from each other, playing cards by candlelight. At this point, Sheila is just certain that Trish is a night-owl. 

The game ends and before the older woman can return to her own bed, Sheila proposes another stroll. Trish cocks an eyebrow. "I would like to show you something", explains Sheila. Her anxiety is gone, she's at home.   
So they leave, through the window. The advantages of a ground floor room. 

Trish links arms with her, but Sheila frees her own arm and grabs the other woman's hand instead. "We'll be climbing some rocks. Safer this way", she justifies.   
They walk, for nearly a half hour, deeper and deeper into the mountain's depths, where the houses are few and very far between. The howls of wolves can be heard so clearly, it is as if a pack of them follows behind.   
Sheila walks fearlessly, Trish right behind her. Were the singer alone, she would have returned by the first howl, but her bodyguard's bravery makes her feet move at the same rhythm as hers.

They come into view of an old, abandoned stone house. The farthest house from the village, so far it looks nearly intact, as if no one had dared even approach it. A smile, a genuine smile spreads across Sheila's face.  
"This is the house where I was born", she explains, leading Trish closer.   
The two sit with their backs towards it, facing the village. 

It's a clear, cold night. The moon is as full as it can be, nearly drowning out the lights of the stars. But the darkness of the village, so different to the cities where they had been staying in, let's them see a vast array of constellations, still. Trish points out Ursa Major, Minor, Orion's Belt. Sheila points out Canis Major.  
"How was growing up, here? So far from the village?", asks Trish, laying down in the cold grass beneath her. Sheila thinks for a second. "Well, I... I was born here, but I didn't spend too much time in this house. My sister was... About eight, when we left. I was two", she explains, laying down as well, arms crossed behind her head, "I still lived around here".  
"Oh, around the village? In another house?"  
"Not really. We lived in the woods, with a pack of wolves"

Trish laughs. Sheila doesn't. Trish's eyes go wide as plates, and she sits up to look at Sheila. The younger woman's face is one of someone who doesn't quite understand the joke.  
"You /can't/ be serious."  
"Why wouldn't I be?"


	2. Steven Universe AU, barely started

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What to say of this one. I made it around May or April, because I was studying for my mineralogy test and had to memorize like fifty minerals. At the same time some new su episode came out and I realized that most of the gems are Silicates. How weird is that? I know that the Sugar lady doesn't care about geology, but it was another example of me applying something I like to something I don't particularly care about. 
> 
> So this is an au where there are a kind of gems that aren't polished and cut like the homeworld gems, called Roughs. They live very, very far underground in Homeworld, under the rule of Master Sulfur, a mass of sulfur with no humanoid form. There was a war against the diamonds, they were banished seeing as they couldnt be killed in any way that mattered, yadda yadda... Also there was a graphite that was the last of the diamond's scribes before Pearls come along and the Roughs also hate her because she served the enemy.
> 
> It was a concept I liked and I'll probably keep it in mind.

#   
Steven wakes up from his nightmare into another. Into deep, deep darkness, but he's facing the ceiling of whatever abandoned cave he fell into, the shred of alien sky visible through the small holes in the rock. It's far, far above him, though, and the stalagmite against which he is laying is not even enough to get him halfway out of this cave, moreso the surface. Unable to move much, he takes a second to catch his breath, his senses.

The sound of dripping water echoes around him, making his headache even worse. He can almost hear the vast echoing of voices, animalistic gurgles, steps and the ringing of metal against metal. He still is in Homeworld, but he did not expect there to be gems so deep underground. Don't they rely on light to change their shape? What light was there to be found down here?   
The air smells musty, most likely because of the water, but as soon as Steven thinks about it there is an overwhelming scent that burns his nostrils.

Like smoke, burning gas. The strong scent of... Sulphur.  
He blinks as his eyes get used to the jet dark shadows of the cave, now seeing creatures that stir within it. Two humanoid ones stand right before him and he startles back, hitting his head in the stalagmite again.  
"Look at the eyes, Sulfur! Ain't no Rough!"  
"I'll be, yer right. Reckon a surface-one?"  
"One way ta find. Oi! Whereabouts didja come from?"

Steven stared in awe at the two gems (were they still gems?) before him. Their eyes were bright yellow, without any pupils, their skins a dull one, but what mattered were their features: far from the plain, humanoid ones sported by the gems he came to know. Their faces were rough, angled, their teeth jutting out of their mouths shining in a metallic way. Instead of light-forms, it was like someone had carved a human out of a rock wall, sharp edges dulled by erosion.   
Eventually, he found the moxie to answer them.  
"I think I fell from up there-"  
"Yaup! Sure confirms it, Sulfur"  
"What do we do with 'em?"

Steven expected the worst, which was reasonable, given how he had been treated by the locals. Even if these two did not recognize him as a Rose Quartz, they'd surely bring him back to the Diamonds and-  
"Ask a name, Sulphur. Is just one, an' battered enough ta look like an un-friend of the Polished Gems, eh?"  
"


	3. Fugo Farm Au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Around this time, Big City Greens started airing. I was such in a farmy mood, I made an AU where Fugo's grandmother lives, he still beats up a teacher but he drops out of college and goes help her in the strawberry farm she has. And the other characters also live around there, in other farms.
> 
> A very homely, very sweet AU. I'll definitely keep it in mind for 2020.

#   
#GRM  
He woke up with the characteristic sound of the rooster singing right up at his door.   
"/Gramma/", he mumbled, loud enough for it to be heard outside the room, thinking to himself that no, his grandmother didn't just go fetch the poor rooster to wake him up.  
"Get up, you lazy lad! It's six on the clock!", came his grandmother's shouts, muffled by the oak door, followed by three raps on it and the sound of a confused and distressed rooster, "That's two in the noon by farm standards! Up, up, up!".

Fugo groaned and lifted the covers off himself, revealing his rather embarrassing strawberry print pajamas. It was a gift from his grandmother, it would be only polite to wear them. He turned, sitting on the edge of his bed as his grandmother opened his door, rooster under her arm. "Don't think that you can stay in bed, stripling! Bah, I wish my mother let me skip farm chores just because I comitted a little petty felony!", the elderly woman affectionately scolded him, putting the poor rooster on the floor as Fugo went to his closet to pick his clothes for the day.

The young man blinked, rubbing the back of his head with one hand as his clothes lay folded over his other arm. "I... Sent a man to the hospital, Gramma.", Fugo commented, arching an eyebrow. His grandmother scoffed. "I sent thirty two, whippersnapper. And yes, I'm counting your athma attacks! Now go, shoo, go take a shower! I'll make you your breakfast, dear", his grandmother retorted, before turning on her heels and marching off down the stairs. 

Fugo looked down at the rooster, looking very lost in the middle of his bedroom. The confused animal looked up at him in search of an answer.   
"Sorry, Blueberry. I'll put you back in the coop after breakfast"  
"Bawk?"

\--  
He took a second to look over himself in the mirror. His usual suit had been put aside for the time being; it was no use wearing it during farmwork. Instead, he'd be wearing some old jeans and an old, grey-pink shirt. Fugo picked a string tie just to retain some of the dignity his tie granted him.   
The clothes seemed to fit his tall, lanky frame rather well, surprisingly. Not many seventeen year old boys were over one meter ninety tall without any muscle to match it. 

Fugo ran his hands over his shirt twice, combing back his hair with his fingers. He stared at his own reflection. For the first time since, perhaps, his birth, he had no path set for him. His parents had unceremoniously disinherited him, the university had promptly banned him, the only reason he was not in juvie was that his parents payed to avoid a scandal. He was free. He'd stay and help with his grandmother's farm. It was, after all, the work he found most rewarding. There were no greats in farming. Merely honest people doing honest work, surviving off the land. Fame was never in the cards for any of them, money, perhaps, with luck, but never recognition by society. 

It was comforting.

Fugo made his bed, tucking his plush bunny in and giving it a little kiss. He blushed after doing so, feeling thankful for no one having seen that little moment. He had every reason for feeling affection towards the bunny, he thought, he had it since birth, but it didn't make him feel any less silly. Fugo gazed at the rooster suspiciously, narrowing his eyes, before gingerly picking him up and heading downstairs.  
"Bawk."  
"Be quiet."  
\--  
He sits at the table, after opening the window and reaching over to place Blueberry on the fence. He knew where to go from here. Fugo's grandmother placed a rather hearty breakfast in front of him, having already eaten breakfast. Still, she sits opposite him, puts on her reading glasses and starts scribbling something on a piece of paper. "You're all skin and bones, so until you get some meat in there, you aren't helping out in farmwork, Panni", the elderly lady explained, tapping her glasses with her pen. Pannacotta stared silently, munching away on the slice of toast with jam. His grandmother carried on.  
"Doesn't mean you can laze around in the orchard! I'm sending you to do errands for me. You're smart enough to know directions, right, boy?", his grandmother asked, always with the same energetic tone he'd expect a toned-down drill sergeant to have. His grandmother leaned back on her chair, tapping the piece of paper with her pen as she started listing off the errands.

"First off, you're going to the Ghirga's house. They moved here some months ago, very pretty girl, but she's got some bad illness so they moved here because of her lungs, used to live in the big city... There's also her husband, he's a gardener, never heard him say a word, he usually just grunts. Oh, and their kid, spunky thing, he's about your age and he has the face of a punk, you can tell, you look into his eyes and he's got that fresh rooster face, stubborn and cocky, see- Well, I'm sending them a welcome gift. I would've sent them one sooner but I only got about picking the oranges yesterday".

His grandmother looked up at him with her characteristic face of challenge, "You're brave enough to face another teenager, right?", she asked mockingly. Fugo scoffed, fighting back a smile.

"Is that it?", the young man asked, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin, getting up to clear the table. His grandmother was likely the only person he ever made such remarks to, even if they were not quite right. He had not faced anyone his age for many years and he knew how he looked to other boys. Weak, frail, too pale and educated to ever join them, an easy target for their mockery, simply because he'd be easily riled up.  
"Feeling bold, are we? Alright! I've got some trades to make, and I'm not wasting my latin on a whippersnapper like you. Take the entire list, let's see when you come back!", laughed the elderly woman, writting something down in the piece of paper and placing it on the table, pocketing the pen on her apron.

Fugo looked over it as his grandmother delved into the depths of the pantry. He shut the tap, leaving the dishes on the sink and walked over to the table. Gingerly, he picked up the scrap of paper, narrowing his eyes to make out the words. The items on that list surprised him... Not particularly the amount of them, rather how spread out they were.   
* Ghirga-Oranges  
* Sheperd by the river- Eggs  
* Miss by the center- Apple Jam  
* Mailman-Milk  
* Neighbours- Leftover Strawberry Jam

He'd take the whole day to do this... How would he even find the mailman? Why couldn't he start with the neighbours?   
"I finish them before breakfast", smugly commented his grandmother, guessing what he was thinking about. She stepped out of the pantry, a massive picnic basket in her hands. "Alright, the eggs are on top on the left, the oranges are on the right. They're in a cloth bag but tell them they can keep it, I'm trying to get rid of them. Below it, there's a meal for you, Panni. The rest is on the left- got it?", she said, opening the basket and showing the items it contained to her grandson. The young man nodded, accepting it into his hands, immediately taken aback by its weight.  
\--

Fugo, ever the convenient individual, tried to trade with the neighbours first, but they weren't home. His grandmother laughed at him when he walked back, defeated.

The Ghirga house wasn't far, at least. Not close enough to be next-door neighbours, still.  
It was a sizeable farm, rather, an orchard. The trees surrounded all sides of the house, arranged in as neat of a grid as was possible with plants. Fugo knew next to nothing about plants, but he could see the vast majority of them were small trees, with their branches covered in oranges. A small gravel path connected the gate to the front of the small cottage, much alike his grandmother's farm. He could not help but notice a prim bed of flowers in either side of the house and the man working on them. 

Fugo fiddles with the cover of the basket, swallowing dryly. He coughs and lets out a 'Hello' in a very shy and weak manner. Why couldn't there be any bell on the gate, like on his farm?   
As expected, the man didn't answer. He continued working on the garden, no matter how loud Fugo shouted. The young man sighed in defeat, forlorn feelings making him sink. Of course. He didn't belong here. He didn't have the lungs, or the muscles, or the skin to be a farmer. Even at his angriest, his voice wouldn't carry further than a couple of meters.

"Wararu?"

Fugo nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden croaking. He looked around, stepping back in fear when he spotted the fiend who made the noise, donning purple and white, motley'd attire, a ghostly gladiator gazing curiously at him.  
Ah, his personal ghost. That no one else seemed to see. He should consult a psychologist sometime. Until then, he named it 'Purple Haze'. Song names were in vogue.

"What do you want?", Fugo whispered between his teeth, turning back to the front gate as inconspicuosly as possible. Others may not hear it, but they sure heard him. The ghost croaked again, almost a whine, nudging the young man with his head. Right. It didn't like to be out in the sunlight, so exposed. That was an opinion they shared.  
"I need to give them the oranges. I don't know /why/ they need more oranges, but Gramma asked, alright?", Pannacotta sighed, rubbing his temples with his hands, basket placed on the ground, "They can't hear me. Or they don't want to. I don't know". Was he just doing as he was told, like he always did? He brushed that thought away.

Purple Haze, for some damned reason, bellowed at the top of its lungs like it was being skinned alive. Fugo stumbled back, startled once again. He opened his mouth to curse out his ghost, when he notices a guy marching down to the front gate form the depths of the orchard. The man gardening still hasn't taken note of him, much unlike the pissed-off teenager charging towards him.

The gladiator vanishes with a muffled chuckle, just as the teen reaches the wooden gate. He's shorter than Fugo, as it is usual, with dark, messy short hair and a round face, fuzz around his jaw and upper lip. He sports dark orange overalls and a black muscle tee, as well as a hairband doing its darned best to keep his hair out of his eyes. Fugo spaces out during his first cusses, trying to process the Sawyer-esque sight he faces. The taller man catches up on the shouting soon enough, though.

"-shoutin' over here like you're dying, huh, keep it down, ya son of a bitch, you're gunna wake my Ma! And if she wakes up I swear I'll jump this gate and and-I'll skin you from head to toe!"  
"My grandmother asked me to bring you oranges", Fugo says, slightly irritated but too 'on the verge of fainting because of the sun' to retaliate. The other man stills, the prospect of oranges clearly an interesting one for him. His face changes quickly, betraying his emotions. At first, he ponders the offer, as if doubting whether the beanpole in front of him actually carries such valuable goods. He smirks when he thinks of all the possibilities that lie in a baker's dozen of oranges, before looking down in shame at the thought of eating them alone. 

Fugo, mesmerized by the extreme expressions the teen made just _thinking_ , doesn't even notice the agressive nod of decision. The fist the black-haired teen had raised aggressively returns to his pocket, pacifistically, as a grin of recognition spreads on his face.  
"Your gramma...? Ya wouldn't be Miss Fraggola's grandson, would ya?", says the young man, jumping over the gate to get a closer look at the beanpole before him, "Ya sure don't look the part! An' you're pale as death, are you sick or something?


	4. Medium Sized Lion Man Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the title. In this one Buccellati tries curing Abbacchio of his lycanthropy, shenanigans ensue.

#   
#FRM  
After around half-hour of the poor lycanthrope trying to get the other man out of the sewers without being punched while attempting to explain the situation to the best of his abilities, the duo finally made it inside the house.

Abbacchio, an animal but not _an animal_ , wiped his paws on the too-welcoming welcome mat as Buccellati, more covered in sewage than any man should ever be, announced he would take a shower, heading towards his bathroom.

The lycanthrope carefully closed the door behind him and headed inside, lifting his foot claws as much as possible to avoid scratching the hardwood floors. Could lions retract their claws like domestic cats, he wondered. Sure would help in this situation. 

Buccellati's apartment wasn't very spacious, but he seemed to like it. Whenever he invited the rest of the group over for dinner, they had to cram themselves around the foldable table of that minuscule kitchen and struggle against each other to glimpse the game on the portable tv, perilously balanced on the edge of the window. Good times. 

Abbacchio chuckled to himself at the memory, shoulders shaking slightly. His friend had no living room to speak of, so the lion-man hunched over and crossed the threshold into the kitchen. He was a lot taller now, he noticed, his ears barely touching the dusty ceiling... His mane was going to be greyer by the end of the night. He walked over to the flimsy wooden benches and gingerly sat on one, lifting the ends of his coat and his tail along with it, as to not sit on them.  
Buccellati eventually returned from the one other room in the house, donning a scratched white tanktop and old loose trousers. The younger man scratched his still-wet hair, looking at the anthropomorphic lion in his kitchen up and down.

To his credit, he sure kept a cool head. After diving into the sewers.

Buccellati placed his hands on his hips, after vaguely gesturing with one of them towards the man. "Well, this is the most hung over you've ever come home", jokes Buccellati to lighten the mood, an awful habit he's picked up from Mista. Abbacchio groans, tail swinging irritably from side to side. The younger man chuckles to himself, putting his hands up in a placating manner as he headed towards the fridge.

"How did this even happen? A Stand user?", Buccellati asks, leaning forward to fetch something in the back of the fridge. A leonine sound escapes Abbacchio, as he scratches his own chin. "No". He thinks for a moment. "Maybe", he corrects himself, thinking how all of the surreal encounters he'd had in life involved a stand user, one way or another, "But if he had one he sure didn't call it out". 

The lion-man takes the cheap, probably expired beer Buccellati hands him and shifts to face the man, who sat across the table. "I was just...", he gestures with his hand, " _minding my own business_ , when this guy starts licking me. Like a dog", Buccellati lets out a discomforted 'huh', "Yeah. Then when I open my eyes, he gets scared and bites me before bolting away".

Buccellati leans forward, as if waiting for him to continue. "That's it?", he asks, somewhat disappointed. "Then I transformed into this, what do you want me to say?", Abbacchio said, taking a swig of his drink. The man shrugged, looking to the corner of the room to avoid eye contact. "Doesn't matter. What matters is returning you to normal", Buccellati spoke, facing the lion again. He moved the can of beer, never actually drinking from it.

Abbacchio tried crossing his legs, finding difficulty in doing so. His digitigrade stance did not allow for such positions. Frustrated, he leaned in, hands on his knees. "Right. Where can we get a werewolf doctor at this time of night?", asked the lion, scoffing through sharp teeth, but Buccellati paid no mind to his dry joke. Instead, he opened a cabinet, took a silver spatula, and gently touched the lycanthrope's forehead.  
"..Nhuh?"  
"Do you feel... Burning?"  
"Not really, no. S'kinda cold"

Buccellati grunted in acknowledgement, placing the spatula back where he found it with a frown. Before Leone could say anything, he was already removing another thing: A thick, flower-cover book, with an intriguing title in bold words.  
 **Nonna Buccellati's Solutions For Lycanthropy**

Hooh, boy.

"My grandmother was very superstitious. I once broke a mirror and she wouldn't allow me to touch any water that wasn't holy water", explained Buccellati, flipping through the pages, "She gave me this book after I said our neighbour was a very hairy man". Leone brought his claws to scratch behind his ears, praying he hadn't caught fleas during his short trek to Bruno's place.   
The lion got up, walking behind the other man so he could see what the book said. 

"Chapter 1: Lycanthropes and you"

Aberrations of nature, demons, foul, godless, vile, flea-ridden murderers that are a threat to any good christian man's home. Alright, granny, calm down. 

"Chapter 2: Killing lycanthropes"

Silver bullets, poison, wire traps, the descriptions made a chill run down Abbacchio's spine, much like the giant anthropomorphic lion's presence a few centimeters from him made Buccellati shiver. The man, obviously, skipped the chapter entirely. 

"Chapter 3: Preventing Lycanthropy"

Silver knick-knacks, crosses, washing hands before eating...? This seemed like a very personal book. Also, what was with werewolves' hatred of silver?   
"Metals like gold and silver are seen as pure. So they repel werewolves, much like crosses", explained Buccellati, guessing what Abbacchio was thinking. The lion let out a warm breath through his nose, making the man shiver again. "How do you know that? Is that in the book, as well?", asked the lycanthrope, peeking over the other's shoulder. Buccellati patted his snout away for some personal space. 

"Not exactly. I have some other books about the subject, but this one should be enough", answered Buccellati, a faint rubor covering his cheeks as he hastily skipped the chapter. Abbacchio huffed, straightening his back. Someone was clearly hiding something, but it wasn't his place to pry.

"Chapter 4: Where to find Lycanthropes"

"Seems unwise to go searching for them after all this description?"  
"My grandmother said there were werewolf hunters who could use this information."  
"...I see."

"Chapter 5: Curing Lyc


	5. Untitled Giorno Vampire Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was to be my Halloween fic, shamefully unfinished. The transformation sequence is there, but I just didn't know how to wrap up the fic.  
> Probably won't finished. I do these every so few months, no one is particularly invested in this one.

#   
Giorno Giovanna was terribly ill.

Not the common ailment that assailed him every cold season, but a horrid fever that numbed his every sense, that made every breath more painful than the last and made even lifting his eyelids a herculean task.

Yet, he insisted on working. There were orders to be sent. People to be killed, people to bribe, people to take bribes for, the criminal ebb and flow of a mob boss. Giorno knew he should rest, desired with every cell in his body to do so, in fact, but the dread of the problems brought by delaying his work shook him harder than the chills than ran through his spine.

Eventually, when the young don of twenty years could not stop a sneeze and positively ruined the papers he'd been working on with snot, Mista and Fugo grabbed his shoulders and legs and set him down on his Alaskan King Bed, tucking him in his warm sheets. Let me work, Giorno grumbled, struggling to kick off the covers, I am your don, do as I say. Mista tisked, shaking his head, and Fugo merely sighed, exhausted already from having to keep a recovering Narancia in his own bedroom.

After some, in Giorno's opinion, needless fussing over, the two left, warning him not to leave the room. If he needed anything, they would get it for him. Fugo recited the medicine he had given him, for fever, cough, runny nose, chest, stomach, back and headaches and for the hives that broke across his sickly pale skin. The don could only think of the work he was post-poning. Mista told him about the delicious chicken soup he was preparing, with this and that condiment, enthusing about his culinary process as was usual. The don could only think of the burocracy, piling up with every minute he spent in bed.

His right-hand man and his accountant left him to his forced rest, alone in the dimly-lit, spacious bedroom. Giorno knew he could not escape this imprisonment without being sighted immediately by the two men he _thought_ would follow orders, yet neither could he sleep. There was a static beneath his skin, a constant flow of adrenaline that left him in trembling panic in spite of the weight of his illness pressing down on him. 

It shouldn't be very long after six in the afternoon. The early dusk of winter had always thrown off his inner clock. The shadows of his dwellings grew, cast by the poor light that managed to come through his blinds, mimicking long, thin figures that stared at him, gently swaying on his walls. He would stare back and his fever would make him hallucinate humanoid shapes, with sharp teeth, blind eyes and fingers as long and spindly as the branches of a dead tree. They would lurch forward and reach for him, expressions blank, never quite grabbing his frail body. Giorno would try to move back, shuffle away or even look away from the horrid visions, but he found his own body unable to barely twitch. 

So he would stare back.

Stare in that petrifying fear he had only felt as a toddler, abandoned by his mother every night, until he passed out from the fever.

When he woke up from that unconscious state, the shadows would return, and get closer, closer, ever closer.

This would repeat itself, in waves, until Giorno didn't know what time it was anymore. Until the panic washed away, giving way to frustration. Until Giorno felt well and truly sick, but not as in his illness, as in tired of the situation. 

So the don sat up, and instead of cowering away, he reached back towards the shadows, movement regained. His hand, reached out in front, fingers outstretched, blocked most of his vision, but he could tell the shadows retreated away from his movement, perhaps in fear. 

It was not for long he held his arm up, that a strange ache reached his fingers. But before he could retrieve his hand to investigate the source of such pain, he saw those same fingers move. Not in the way fingers could be moved, but extending, forward. His bones elongating painfully, dislocating from their joints, a bridge of skin moving with them, nearly reaching his fingertips.

Giorno felt no fear, no panic, merely intrigue at this odd... Hallucination, certainly. He moved his hands, to look at their back, and his palms, and as he did, he noticed also that his arms were growing as well. Giorno moved to kneel on the bed, the sheets falling off of him, noticing that the skin of his sides was growing more slack as the seconds ticked by. Astounded, Giorno undid the buttons on his shirt before his fingers became too long to do so. This was his favourite set of pajamas. 

In morbid curiosity, the young don staggered to his bathroom, flicking the light switch with his elbow. Where any other person would've panicked at such a transformation, Giorno, instead, wanted to witness it better.   
It was in the cold, bright white light that Giorno deduced his upper members were becoming bat wings, as there was now a considerable amount of skin between his long, nearly meatless fingers, connecting to his torso. What he had noticed as well was his toes, slowly losing their shape as the bones extended, becoming but sharp claws that curled against the floor and nearly made him lose his balance. 

Giorno looked at himself in the bathroom's mirror, great and bordered with solid gold, with the intention of analysing the changes his head was surely undergoing. He was correct, for his face was already drastically altered, the bridge of his nose having practically collapsed into his face, his nostrils extending up , exposed to the world, and the tip of his nose growing into a small horn made of hardened skin. His eyes had turned a full, dull black, his face wider, his teeth sharp and poking out through his lips. His ears, goodness, it was his ears the most notable change, growing so big they were nearly the size of his own head, and pointing upwards.

He could hear every inch of his skin reshaping, his bones dislodging themselves, and the fur spreading across his body, in tones of pale beige. It was astounding, really- Giorno never expected himself to have any body or facial hair, no matter how old he was. Now that he saw his bare chest completely covered in matted blades of fur, he now knew he was not missing much.

The knuckles of his hands now reached the ground, but Giorno was more interested in the little tail growing out of his backside. Could he even call it a tail? It was merely the meeting point of his wings... He could not even wiggle it.

The transformation was well and truly finished, as there was no more noises of reshaping and restructuring. Giorno stared himself down in the mirror, shirtless and with oddly-fitting pajama bottoms, and felt a odd surge of pride flow through him. Aside from a very weird thirst that made his throat itch...

There were three knocks on the door- no more. Suddenly, the true weight of the situation dawned on Giorno, and the panic of his friends seeing him in this state settled in deep, in the depths of his stomach.

How could he escape this? Through the window? He was unsure if his wings could even fly, and he was still terribly ill. Hiding in the bathroom? They would look for him and find him immediately.  
Just as Mista opened the door with his back, as he held a tray in his hands, Giorno dove back under his covers, taking care to hide every inch of his bat-like body.

-Oh, he's fallen asleep.

Mista tisked affectionately.  
-He's always the same... Says he can't sleep, then conks out the second we lay him in bed-Giorno could hear him chuckle, the distance between him and the bed closed in seconds.

The don held his breath for a second, then stopped doing so immediately when he


	6. Buccellati Cat Owner Au, the rest of the gang are the cats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is adorable, I'll definetely try and finish it in 2020. It's one of my favourite concepts! I had a lot of fun drawing the gang's cat designs.

#   
Bruno Buccellati loved cats.  
Sure, to the uninformed third party he would've seemed like a dog person, but cats just tend to flock to you when you're a fisherman.   
He'd always had cats, for as long as he can remember. Well, not... Had, per se. Again, they flocked to him, he fed them fish guts and they'd be on their way.

But he wanted to properly own one of those fuzzy little critters. One that stayed at his home, scratched his couch, knocked down everything on top of the shelves and seldomly purred. So, during one stormy day too dangerous to fish in, Buccellati took one glance at the Cat Paraphernalia stored in he corner of the living room and decided to march on down to the local shelter.

He found himself staring at the weirdest cat he'd ever seen.  
"Yeah, he's a purebred, I think", explained the shelter's supervisor, looking down at the odd kitten behind bars. The small animal was white with beige spots, lean and with ridiculously long legs and big ears. On top of that, he was walking around from side to side in his pen, all fluffed up, with his back arched and his tail looking like a pine tree. How intimidating.  
"You sure you want him? I'm not supposed to say this, but no one keeps him for very long because of his atitude problems. Angry and hissy all the time", warned the supervisor, side-eyeing the cat when he started hissing, "And I can't reccomend a problematic cat to a unexperienced owner.".

Buccellati squat down to pass a finger through one of the holes in the wire fence. The kitten sniffed it, before relentlessly biting and scratching it. The young fisherman turned to the supervisor with tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, mostly of pain. "I'll take him", spoke Buccellati, before the cat dived into another flurry of scratches against the finger.

As expected, when brought home, the young cat flattened himself to the side of the carrier opposite the door and refused to come out. The first-time cat owner squat down to look inside the little plastic box with holes on the sides, greeted with another irritated hiss. Well, he supposed that behaviour was justified, right? This was a new, strange home, after all.  
"Um. There's food and water right here. The litterbox is in the corner, there.", explained Buccellati, pointing to their locations, as the cat stared at him, "So. Take your time". And with that, the man sat down on his couch and resumed reading the book he left on the coffee table in the morning.

The kitten never showed much of himself during the first days. He'd stalk outside to drink, eat and use his litter, but he'd hide under something right before Bruno had a chance to take a good look at him.  
After those first few days, the storm had let up, giving way to a light drizzle, perfect for fishing. And as much as he hated leaving his new fuzzy companion alone, Bruno had to get to catching those fish if he wanted a chance to feed himself and the yet-to-be-named cat.  
What? He wanted to get to know the critter before naming him.

So, after shouting some reminders to behave himself to the lanky mass of fur atop the cat tower, Buccellati left his house, onwards to a day of fishing.  
When he returned, after loading off all that he caught to the lovely ladies of the dock in exchange for money, the man headed for home, praying his cat hadn't gotten into any trouble.

He opened the door, barged in, looked around frantically for his cat.  
The poor thing was just sitting in the carpet, but he was so startled that he jumped backwards into his signature 'intimidating' stance. However, he stopped midway. Sniffed the air. Stalked closer, sniffed the man's leg, and after a moment of consideration, bumped his head against it, purring.  
Buccellati nearly forgot that he stunk of fish guts (which was, no doubt, the reason his pet was all of a sudden, so friendly) in his moment of raw joy.

\---  
Being fortunate enough to own a rather spacious balcony, big enough to count as a backyard, Buccellati cat-proofed the entire perimeter and let Pannacotta out, with supervision, of course.

Pannacotta being, his cat. The white, beige-spotted, big-eared, tall-legged, lanky cat. That he loved very much.  
Ever since acquiring him Buccellati had fully baptized himself into the title of 'Cat owner', with books, furniture and magazine subscriptions, far more than for any other of his hobbies. So what, reading about cat T.V. star drama was far more entertaining than reading about human T.V. star drama. Did you know Signore Miaou and Signore Pelo, from some popular novela or other, were actually brothers?! Who would have guessed! To think they played the pets of mortal enemies!


End file.
